


Don’t Sleep In the Subway, Darling

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Inception
Genre: Anal Fingering, Betrayal, Choking, Couch Sex, Deception, Dream!Deaths, Dreams, Dreamwork, Fighting, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Makeouts, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, New York City, Pre-Inception, Punching, Restraints, Revenge Sex, Sex, Spanking, Strangulation, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Teasing, Winter, teen!Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: While working on a job in New York, Arthur finds himself distracted by a homeless man he sees by the subway every day.





	Don’t Sleep In the Subway, Darling

 

           Arthur doesn't pick up homeless men. He doesn't do this much in the way that he doesn't smoke cheap cigarettes or read generic best sellers, or travel anywhere without checking the quickest ways out of the country.

           Still, most homeless men don't look like this one. Despite the dirt, and the shabby clothes, the homeless man is rather beautiful. Arthur doesn't stare at his lips as he drops a five into the man's cup. Well, he doesn't stare long. The man smiles up at him, which makes his full lips look even more delectable, despite the cigarette dangling between them.

           “Cheers, mate.” His voice reveals what his clothes don't; he's British.

           Arthur nods at him and walks on.

           The man has been there a week, sitting outside the subway station on a piece of cardboard. He's dressed in dirty jeans, a t-shirt that may have been white once, but now aspires to a dull gray, and a dark jacket over that. His hair is matted and greasy. There's a bruise one cheek, and a smudge of dirt on the other.

           Arthur contemplates briefly what the man would look like under a hot shower.

           Then he goes back to work.

 

~ * ~

 

           Arthur's worked in dreams for over three years now. He's well known in the business, which he both likes and dislikes. There are advantages and disadvantages to being known. He appreciates the fact that associates respect his abilities and professionalism, yet he dislikes the very notion of being  _known_. It leaves an uneasy feeling resting between his shoulder blades. It's hard to reconcile sometimes, but Arthur does his best. He tells himself that a healthy amount of paranoia keeps you alive, but anything more is foolish.

           Still, he can't shake the feeling that the homeless man looks familiar somehow.

           It's November. The New York nights are bitter and dark – the hint of winter frost in the air. Arthur buys a cup of coffee on his way home, and then, as an afterthought, he buys a second one.

           The homeless man is still there, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He's resting his chin on his arms, looking for all the world like a small boy, waiting for something. Arthur hesitates, and then moves over to him.

           “Here.”

           The man blinks up at him.

           “Coffee. Two sugars. A little cream.” Arthur doesn't know why he ordered it that way. He just did. “The sugar will do you good.”

           The homeless man laughs and reaches up a hand. “The warmth will do me better.” He cups his hands around the cup, warming his hands.

           Arthur starts walking away.

           “Hey!”

           He looks back.

           “Thank you.”

           Arthur nods wordlessly and walks on.

           He drinks his coffee while he walks to his apartment. It's dark and empty, tidy and organized. It's not a home. It's simply a temporary location. The job he's working on at the moment is taking too long to make a hotel stay worth the expense.

           Arthur eats the leftover Chinese in the fridge before he takes a shower. He goes over his notes for the job before he pulls on a pair of pajama pants and slips between his clean, cool sheets.

            _Something about the lips._

           Arthur closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

 

~ * ~

 

           The next day is the coldest November day New York has known in twenty years. Arthur knows this because the news insists on telling him repeatedly. He dislikes winter, but he'll only be in New York a short while longer. Its weather doesn't really affect him that much.

           Still, it's bitterly cold as he walks to the office they have set up in a building downtown. His hands are freezing, even though he's wearing gloves. At least he thought to grab a scarf. It's wrapped around his face, shielding his mouth and nose. If this was a normal 9-5 job, Arthur would say 'fuck it,' and stay home. But it's not a normal job, he's getting paid to help organize a world for a young boy in a coma. It's a fascinating construct, and one that Arthur is perfectly willing to walk through the freezing cold for.

           When he passes the subway station, he can't help glancing at the figure curled up by the wall. The man is still there, resting his forehead on his folded arms. Arthur hesitates, but he doesn't have time for this, not this morning. He continues on before he can stop to think about it. There are shelters the man can go. Heck, he could go inside the station itself for a while, but most likely the cops who patrolled the platforms would simply make him move along. There's no easy solution in finding a warm, safe place, not in a city like New York.

           Arthur focuses on overseeing the construct once he's at the office. He doesn't think about the figure huddled by the subway station. He goes meticulously over details of their client's son's past, checking to make sure they've got everything right. He makes Dawson, the architect, change half the details in the bedroom. It still doesn't look right, even after he's changed it. Arthur knows this, as he knows instinctively what's wrong with it. Their client is trying to keep his son at a young age, where he still lived at home, before he went off to college and ended up in a coma after a football game. He wants to keep his son safe in his dreams. Arthur respects this, even as he's critical over the details, and the fact that the son won't be that age in his dreams...unless he wants to be.

            _Perhaps he does,_ Arthur muses as he turns out the lights in the office and heads for home at last. Perhaps it was a happier time for the whole family. Or maybe it was a terrible time and the father is trying to set things right, if it's possible. Regardless, it's his money, his choice to place his son in this dream world. Arthur will help organize the world and he will take the money and walk away. That's how it works, how it makes sense.

           What doesn't make sense is the way his feet slow when he comes in sight of the subway station. Surely the man won't be there. It's too fucking cold. But he's there all the same, only for once he's standing. Half pacing, half just moving from foot to foot, trying to keep circulation going in his limbs.

           Arthur goes over to him. “Do you have somewhere to go?” He's a little surprised at the man's form. He'd looked smaller while sitting down. Now he stands slightly taller than Arthur.

           The man, bigger, broader, and dirtier than Arthur, cocks his head and looks at Arthur. “If I did...do you really think I'd be standing around here?”

           “That's what I thought.” Arthur pulls his scarf down a little further so he can speak more easily.

           “Then why ask?”

           “I like to have things confirmed.” Arthur says simply. The man is far attractive now that he's in motion, but he's still filthy...and besides that has nothing to do with why Arthur is doing this.    

           “I see.” The man reaches into his pocket for a smoke. He's only wearing fingerless gloves, his fingers are raw and red. He lights it and blows smoke away from Arthur. “Well, then...”

           “Would you like to have somewhere to stay for the night?”

           The man takes a drag, holding the cigarette close to his face as though he might lose it. “That depends on the conditions.”

           “No conditions.”

            The man's eyes widen. “No conditions. You mean to say you're totally fine with me going home with you, eating whatever you've got in you fridge, changing your TIVO, pissing on the plants, and dirtying your sheets by fucking you across them until you can't come any more??”

           Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I don't tolerate people urinating on my plants.” Arthur doesn't have any plants, but if he did, he feels this is the viewpoint he would take.

           “What about the sheets then?” The guy asks, his voice is gravelly with insinuation, “Who dirties them for you?”

           Arthur disregards the question. “Conditions: You can eat whatever's in the fridge if you want, but I'd beware the green carton in the back. I don't care what you watch on TV. If you take a shower, clean up after yourself,” He leans in. “If you touch my sheets, I'll kill you.”

           He starts to pull back, but the man catches the end of his scarf, holding him there an inch or so apart in the frosty air. “Are you telling me,” the man's lips are very close to Arthur's now, “you'll take me home like a stray, feed me and wash me, and no petting?” The man leans in even closer. “You don't want sex?”

           “No,” says Arthur, which at this very moment in time is true because he's half frozen. “So, you coming or what?”

           The man resists all the awkward jokes that could have come out of that phrasing and follows him.

           They walk to Arthur's apartment in the silence of the streets of late night New York. The man doesn't volunteer any information about himself and Arthur doesn't ask. When they enter the lobby of his apartment building, the man draws in a deep breath. He doesn't say anything, but Arthur can't help noticing the color returning to his cheeks. The good kind, not the kind that makes him look half frozen.

           The elevator dings and they get on.

           “Do you do this often?” The man leans back in the elevator, looking at Arthur from under half-lidded eyes.

           “No,” Arthur says.  _Never._

 

~ * ~

 

           He unlocks his front door and steps inside, switching on the light.

           “The bathroom's first door on the left, if you want a shower.”

           “Thanks.” The man hesitates, like he's going considering saying something more, but then just goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

           Arthur gets a towel from the cupboard, then a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that got stretched in the wash. He pushes the door open half an inch and puts them on the sink. He doesn't look at the shower, but the mirror gives him a full length, albeit blurred shot of the man's naked back. Arthur closes the door.

           He gets the coffeemaker started before he starts tidying away the work he has spread out over his desk. It looks like nothing more than a bunch of folders, perfectly normal office work. He doesn't put it at all away, because that would look suspicious. As it is, if the man is an perfectly ordinary vagrant, there's little chance he'll understand the logistics of dreamwork.

           Once that's done, Arthur calls the deli on the corner and orders two steaks and some coleslaw. He has potatoes frying by the time the delivery boy arrives. By the time the bathroom door opens, the steaks are sizzling in the pan.

           “Red wine or beer?” Arthur asks as the man enters the kitchen.

           “Red wine, please.”

           Arthur looks over his shoulder then. He doesn't freeze in surprise, that would be melodramatic. But he does stare a little. The man already has the sweatpants on, and is in the process of pulling the t-shirt over his head. Arthur catches sight of his torso, tattooed and muscular. Something hot and needy curls in his own belly and he turns away.

           The man pulls his shirt down. “Thanks for the clothes.”

           Arthur hands him a glass of wine in acknowledgment. The t-shirt is tight enough he can see the man's muscles, and the small imprints of his nipples. The man looks at the steaks, then at Arthur, questioningly. Arthur doesn't defend his cooking; he's not doing this to be kind.

           He waits until they're seated at opposite ends of his small table, plates full of food and glasses of wine before he asks, pleasantly enough.

           “Who hired you?”

           The man chews the bite of steak in his mouth, swallows and looks at him curiously. “Hired me for...”

           “You're in the same spot every day, yet none of the other street people seem to know you. You make enough money with that smile of yours to get food, yet you're always back in the exact same location by the time I walk by, both at morning and night. You're not an addict, alcoholic, or prostitute.”

           “You don't like my smile?” The man grins over his wine.

           Arthur ignores him. “Who hired you? What's your job?”

           The man takes a sip. “May I remind you, Arthur, that you're the one that picked me up?”

           “I didn't tell you my name.”

           “It's on your mail on the table by the front door.” The man tells him quietly, taking another sip.

           Arthur considers this. “Why did you come?”

           The man lounges back in his chair, “Last week, you bought a newspaper on the corner. You smiled at the man who owned the stand. You have the most delightful dimples. I was hoping I'd see more of them.” His eyes says, ' _of all of you_.'

           “You came home with me because my dimples?”

           “Has no one ever done that before?”

           “No.” Not that Arthur can remember. He takes a sip from his own glass. “What did you do?”

           “I was a bartender for a time, which is why I can tell you this is a 86' Merlot, very nice, if a little dry.”

           “You're critiquing my wine.”

           “You're accusing me of having an agenda, even though I can't figure out exactly what that's supposed to be. If you thought I was a thief, you never'd have let me in your apartment.”

           “I don't think you're a thief.”

           “What then?”

           Arthur shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.” He takes a bite of steak. His instincts are telling him there's something about the man, but if the man is lying Arthur can't read it. Arthur decides to believe him, just this once.

           They finish the meal. Arthur clears the table while the man looks at his living room. “You haven't lived here very long.” He observes.

           “What makes you say that?” Arthur wipes his hands on a towel, tops off both their wine glasses and comes to stand beside the man.

           “The lack of personal ambiance.” The man accepts his wine. His fingertips brush Arthur's as he does, and Arthur is slow to draw his hand away.

           “Maybe I don't like clutter.”

           “Now that I believe.” The man takes a sip of wine, then sets it down on the coffee table. He looks at Arthur, who doesn't move as the man's eyes study him.

           He moves in slowly, until he has only to lean in to reach Arthur's mouth. He doesn't ask permission, doesn't ask if Arthur wants to be kissed, he simply kisses. Arthur's lips part beneath the insistence – then the man's tongue is in his mouth, his hand on the back of Arthur's hair, holding Arthur as he kisses him. He's hard, Arthur can feel him through the sweatpants. When he pulls back, the man's mouth is flushed. Arthur wants to know if it'll look that good when it's wrapped around his dick. He assumes he'll find out fairly soon.

           The man pulls at his t-shirt, discarding it. The sweats go next, and then he's standing naked in front of Arthur. He's a magnificent creature, all muscles and tattoos, a combination Arthur is not usually attracted to, but there's something about this combination that makes him hot all over, like he has a fever and doesn't care if he dies from it. It's dangerous; this man is dangerous.

           'What's he really doing here?” Arthur's instincts ask. Arthur's dick doesn't really care.

            He runs his hands up the man's naked torso, caressing the tattoos before reaching to unbutton his own shirt. He has it down to the last button when the man leans in to lick at one of his nipples, his tongue warm and rough like a cat's. Arthur moans, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on a chair. Shoes, trousers, socks, briefs all join it – all the while the man is everywhere. His fingers on Arthur's hip and ass. His mouth at the back of Arthur's neck. His thigh pressed against Arthur's.

           Arthur pushes him down on the couch. “Wait here.”

           The man spreads his arms along the back of the couch, looking up at him hungrily. “Don't take too long.”

           Arthur goes to the tiny bathroom where he gets out the lube he keeps in the medicine cabinet, then a condom from the box under the sink. When he returns to the living room, the man is fisting his own cock lazily. Just sitting there on Arthur's couch, stroking himself. Arthur admires the sight, before stepping forward into his space, climbing on top of the man and settling himself like he belongs. Slicking two fingers, he reaches down to run them lightly around the man's hole. The man has his head back as Arthur pushes them inside, past the resistance of muscle, stretching the man until he can't wait any longer.

           Arthur opens the condom, but the man takes it out of his hand, takes hold of him. Arthur bites his lip as the man runs his hand up Arthur's length, before rolling the condom on. When Arthur presses his dick to the man's entrance, the man barks a laugh that startles them both.

           “Sorry, sorry.” His hands glide to rest on Arthur's hips, steadying him as Arthur sinks inside him. “It's just...this is...”

           “What?” Arthur stills, just inside him.

           “A surprise.” The man tells, looking up at Arthur.

           Arthur pushes inside him, making the man moan. “Good.” Then abruptly, he asks. “What's your name?”

           “Now why do you want to know that?” The man murmurs. What he really means, Arthur knows is  - why  _now?_

           Arthur pushes a little further, letting the man feel it, how deep he is inside. “Tell me.”

           “Eames.” The man says at last.

           Arthur moves steadily as Eames's thumbs stroke his hipbones, his own cock between them. When he's about to come, Arthur wraps a hand around Eames's dick, stroking it as he thrusts faster. The rhythm is a little off, but neither of them mind. Eames's lips are parted as Arthur fucks him, his hands still holding Arthur's hips, but now his fingers are digging into Arthur's skin so tightly, as though trying to hold onto him.

           Arthur comes with a silent moan, as Eames spills messily over his fingers. His hips move slower until he's just resting there inside Eames, as Eames's dick twitches in his hand.

           Eames reaches up to run his fingers through Arthur's hair. Neither of them speak as Arthur pulls out. He rolls off the condom, ties it, drops it in the trash.

           “Do you want me to go?” Eames's voice is husky.

           “Stay,” is all Arthur says.

           Eames accepts by slipping out from under Arthur and pushing him back against the couch. It takes all of Arthur's finely attuned reflexes  _and_ control not to flip the man over and crush his neck. Instead he lets Eames press him against the cushions, lifting Arthur's legs up over his shoulders as he devours Arthur's cock greedily. Eames's mouth is a wonder, draining Arthur of everything he has, even though he just came a moment ago. Arthur's cock is aching and sensitive on Eames's tongue. The man works him slowly and surely. Arthur's hips twitch helplessly. He can't come again that quickly, and yet... Eames doesn't seem to agree. The man cups his balls, rolling them nimbly over his knuckles like it's a  game. The sensation makes Arthur tingle all over until he sees spatters of white and gray  and gold, wondering briefly if he's going blind - and he's coming again, gasping and painful, until his dick is limp on Eames's tongues and his balls ache with emptiness.

           Eames pulls off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Arthur runs his fingers through his hair, just laying there a moment, with his spent dick out, and the rise and fall of his uneven breath.

           When he has the strength to stand, Arthur fixes them both a drink after washing his hands. Eames pulls his clothes back on and is sipping his whiskey in silence when Arthur emerges from the kitchen.

           “It's cold.” Arthur tells him unnecessarily. “Come on.” He leads the way to his bedroom where he pulls Eames down onto his bed, and they kiss, soft kisses that taste of whiskey and silence. Eames feels strangely comfortable in his bed. Arthur tells himself this is only his imagination.

 

~ * ~

 

           Arthur's standing in an office. It's his office, the one they're working out of downtown, but there's something...when he raises his eyes, there's a young woman sitting at the desk in the tiny side office. She's organizing his papers quickly and methodically, but when she sees Arthur, she smiles.

Arthur wants to smile back, but something stops him. They don't have a woman working with them; he's never seen her at the office, and her smile is overly familiar.

            _Something about the lips._  Though the lips are lovely.

           Arthur's hand is on the doorknob. Instead he turns and goes down the hall away from her.

 

~ * ~

 

           He's walking through a park. The grass is lush beneath his shoes. The sun bright and warm upon his cheek. There's a carnival in the distance, he can see the flags waving and the barkers calling. And a young man lolling on a blanket, smiling up at him.

           Arthur studies him. Slim, but muscled, a tattoo curling around one wrist. “I don't know you.”

           “We only met today.” The young man agrees. “Come on then.” He reaches a hand up for Arthur.

           “I don't pick up strangers.” Arthur tells him. It's true; he doesn't.

           For some reason this amuses the young man. “Is that so?” He drawls.

           His voice, something about his voice calms Arthur, but then he's in a museum, his favorite museum in London, sitting before his favorite painting. There is no one else in the room save a woman looking at a sculpture in the corner.

           Arthur approaches her. “Who are you?”

           “I'd never have taken you for an art lover.” The woman says, nodding at the room. “You're just full of surprises.”

           “Who are you?” Arthur has her by the throat, pressing her up against the wall. Her throat is warm beneath his fingers. Her breath catches as she struggles to breathe.

           “Darling, don't be this way.” She reaches for his belt.

           Arthur knocks her hand away, trapping it as he maintains his hold on her. “Who are you?' He leans in, searching for something in her face.

           “You'll have to do better than that,” the woman whispers.

           Arthur chokes her slowly. The breath dying in her throat. Her eyes widen briefly, her body goes limp, and then he's alone in the room.            

           It takes him a little while find something to kill himself. It's messy and bloody and then he wakes in the dark of his room, gasping. The bed is empty beside him. His papers are in order. Nothing is disturbed. But there is a note on his fridge, as though Eames has just popped out for some milk. All it says is: _Your instincts were right._

Arthur folds it carefully and tucks it away, before he goes to take a long shower, until the hot water runs out. Then he fixes a drink and goes back to sleep in the sheets that smell of Eames.

 

~ * ~

 

           He will find Eames, if that's even his name. And then, Arthur's knuckles crack against the table.

 

~ * ~

 

           He waits to see if anything's different, or missing, but Eames hasn't left anything behind. He left no trace on Arthur except breath and memories.

 

~ * ~

 

           It's a year before Arthur encounters Eames again. By then, Arthur has started to hear about the man. Rumors and stories and whispers pass through the list of contacts. Eames is a thief, a forger, a liar. Either the best or the worst, depending on who you talk to.

           When Carson hires him, Arthur is well aware that Eames has already been brought on board the project. Arthur's quite prepared when he walks into the warehouse. Carson greets him, but his attention is drawn right to the other man, siting at ease in the chair. He doesn't move, doesn't show any sign of being uneasy. Yet Arthur knows Eames is tensed and ready for anything. An attack, a suggestion, anything.

           “Have you met Eames?” Carson nods to the sitting man who stays put.

           Arthur looks Eames over. “I don't believe Mr. Eames and I have had the pleasure professionally.”

           At that Eames actually smiles.

           “Well, that's about to change.” Carson says.

           Arthur turns his attention away back to him. He can feel the forger watching him. He wonders when Eames will make his move.

           Arthur learns all he can in the meantime. Where Eames is staying, when he usually goes back to to his hotel. The forger usually goes to a bar before heading back to his hotel for the night. Arthur plans accordingly.

 

~ * ~

 

           Eames only manages three days before he sidles over to Arthur during a workshop. “No hard feelings then?”

           “I beg your pardon?”

           Eames's trying to see if he's joking, Arthur can tell. This shouldn't please him as much as it does. Arthur looks at him, leaning in close enough that he could kiss Eames if he chose. He can see the hope of that in Eames's eyes, even now.

           “You were in my head, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smiles very very slightly. “I don't like people being in my head.” He can see it when it dawns in Eames's eyes, how he tries to hide it all the same.

           “Arthur,” Eames starts.

           Arthur turns away.

 

~ * ~

 

           Eames tries again later. He's waiting by the door when Arthur leaves the warehouse.

           “Arthur.”

           “We have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Eames.” Arthur walks past him.

           “You weren't supposed to take me home.” Eames says softly.

           Arthur pauses, looks over his shoulder. “I didn't take you home.”

           Eames winces almost imperceptibly. He looks as though he's about to try something else.

           Arthur cuts him off. “So why did you come?”

           “I wanted to.” Eames hesitates over the words, like they cost him something to say.

           It doesn't cost Arthur anything to walk away.

 

~ * ~

 

           He thinks about it later though, wonders what Eames meant by it. Arthur wasn't supposed to take him back to his apartment...so how did that happen? If Eames hadn't planned that from the beginning, and Arthur hadn't predicted the move himself...how did it happen? He goes back over his own movements, tries to determine when and where he made the decision to take the man back to the apartment with him. He can't. It was a fleeting moment that came, and Arthur took it, as small as it was, he took it for the moment, took Eames, and then...it was gone.

           He finds Eames in the bar, a drink in front of him, as he doodles on a napkin.

           “What was supposed to happen?” Arthur slides onto the stool next to him. 

           Eames looks at him side-wise as he takes a sip of his drink. “I was supposed to research you. See if I could get inside your head.”    

           “See what you could find?” Arthur inquires.

           Eames shrugs. “Take a look around. My boss was interested to see how you worked.”

           “And you?” Arthur orders a vodka tonic when the bartender heads their way.

           “I just wanted a look.” Eames grins. “I'd heard of you, Arthur. I wanted to see what the talk was about.”

           Arthur takes a sip of his drink and sets it down. “And did you?”

           “I saw pieces.” Eames reflects. “Bits and pieces. But there's a lot more to you. Arthur, than what's simply in your head.”

           Arthur tilts his head slightly, studying him. They're dangerously close to flirting. Arthur's not in the mood to flirt.

           “It was just a job, Arthur.” Eames drains the last half of his drink. “Take it or leave it.”

           “I'll leave it.” Arthur says coolly, starting to get up, but Eames's hand is on his thigh.

           “Why did you take me home?” His lips, those lips Arthur's kissed, form the words, trying to understand.

           “You looked like a reasonably worthwhile fuck.” Arthur tells him.

           Eames believes him for half a moment, and then he laughs, warm and hearty. Maybe it's the alcohol. It shouldn't stick in Arthur's gut like that. He wants Eames to laugh again, laugh while he's pressing those lips to Arthur's skin. That want isn't going to happen any time soon.

           “Under all that dirt?” Eames smirks. His thumb rubs along the inside of Arthur's thigh very very gently.

           Arthur rests his hand on Eames. Then, carefully, he twists his fingers, catching Eames's between his own, and he twists harder. Eames yelps, as Arthur cracks the bone, breaking his pinkie finger neatly in two.

           “Jesus Christ, Arthur.” Eames gasps.

           Arthur removes his hand. “Fuck off.” He pays for his drink and leaves.

           Eames catches up with him outside. “You little shit. It was professional, not personal.”

           Arthur punches him hard in the gut, sending Eames reeling back. “So the fucking was professional was it? I think my idea of what's professional and yours differ slightly.”

           “Arthur.” Eames sounds pained. Though that could have been the punch in his gut. “That was not part of the plan.”

           “I don't like things that aren't part of the plan.” Arthur tells him before punching Eames again.

           This time Eames comes back at him and then they're grappling across the mouth of the alley, down over the filthy pavement. Eames is strong, Arthur will give him that.  Every time Arthur gets a hold on the man, Eames manages to wriggle free. As they wrestle, the forger gets a leg over Arthur's. Arthur twists sharply, wrenching his arm as he pulls away. He elbows Eames in the face before he staggers to his feet. Eames pushes himself up on his knees, spitting blood.

           Arthur turns and walks away without another word. He goes back to his apartment. His shoulder is aching and he knows what he has to do. He dislocated it when he pulled free. So he pours himself a drink, gulps it down and rams his shoulder into the door jamb, smacking it back into place. It hurts like hell, but it's a good reminder of all the trouble Eames is capable of. Arthur just has to stay away from him. Except...he can't. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

 

~ * ~

 

           The next morning he goes to the warehouse at the usual time. He's about to make the most unprofessional move he's ever made in his career, and it's because of Eames. Which only serves to make him angrier with Eames. The logical side of Arthur, which, let's face it, is most of him, knows full well that he's being unreasonable. The sad part is that he didn't care.

           He goes to Carson and resigns from the project.

           “We can't do this job without you.” Carson says, looking at him with defeated eyes. “Arthur, please.”

           “I know.” Arthur says.

           Eames is watching this exchange, his face puffy and bruised from the night before, fingers bandaged on one hand. Eames knows why Arthur is doing this. It's sending a clear, precise message. The job will be canceled because they won't have enough time to get another point man. Which means Eames is out of a job. Which means Eames won't have enough money to pay his gambling debts. Which means Eames is in serious trouble with quite a few unpleasant people.

           It's as simple as that.

           Arthur knows he's being a dick.

           He doesn't really care.

           It's still not really enough. It's not personal  enough.

 

~ * ~

 

           Arthur leaves as soon as he's packed up his equipment. He packs up his hotel room, and then he checks the time. Eames will be in the bar for a short while longer, and then he'll go to his own hotel room. If he follows his usual pattern. The odds are good that he will.

           Arthur waits in the dark until Eames opens the door. The needle jab takes barely a moment. Eames barely has time to mutter, 'The fuck,' before crumpling to the floor. Arthur closes the door and turns the lock before dragging the man over to his bed.

           He lays Eames out on the bed. The handcuffs are only a matter of precaution. He leaves Eames's clothed, though the temptation to strip him bare and leave him that way is strong. Slipping the needle into Eames's skin, he then does the same to his own arm.

           The last time he lay down beside Eames, they'd been naked. Arthur closes his eyes. He doesn't think about the way Eames felt when they fucked. Doesn't think about the way his body felt against his own. Those memories are not something Arthur chooses to think about. He closes his eyes and lets himself slip into Eames's mind.

 

~ * ~

 

           The door opens and Eames is shoved through it. Albeit, a scruffy version of Eames that appeared to be around seventeen years, in school boy uniform. Eames as a youth is strangely vulnerable, though more than a little arousing. Arthur can't help but be amused at Eames's subconscious, the version of himself put forth.

           “Mr. Eames.” Arthur looks up from his desk. “They say you've been disruptive in class again.”

           “Was only a bit of fun.” Eames mutters, eyes downcast.

           “Really?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Your teacher’s informed me that it was rather more serious than that. It looks like your father will have to be notified.”

           He's just tossing shit out there, seeing what Eames will do in response, but at that, Eames's eyes widen.

           “Please, sir,” he says, before he catches himself.

           “Yes?” Arthur looks at him, genuinely curious.

           “Please don't tell my father.” Eames mutters, keeping his eyes on the desk between them.

           “It was a serious offense, Eames.” Arthur folds his hands.

           “Please, sir, I'll,” Eames raises his eyes then, looking straight at Arthur. “I'll do anything. To make it up. Truly, sir, I will.” His lips are parted slightly, full and earnest and offering. 

 _So that's it_ , Arthur thinks. He leans back in his chair and smiles.

           “Take down your trousers and bend over.” He orders softly.

           Eames obeys without a single word in protest. Arthur could get used to this side of Eames.

           He stands, walking around the desk to stand behind Eames. “Can you explain why you're not wearing any underclothes?”

           “No, sir.” Eames mutters to the carpet.

           Arthur removes his belt slowly, loop by loop. “You should have known better, Eames.”

           “Yes, sir.”

           Arthur snaps the belt once, letting the sound of it whip through the air. Eames is tense, his ass is clenched tightly as possible. Arthur will just have to do something about that. He lets the first blow strike right across both cheeks.

           “Fuck!” Eames rocks forward on his toes.

           “Language, Eames.” Arthur reprimands him. “Fingers to the tips of your shoes.”

           “ _Sir._ ” Eames grates out.

           Arthur strikes him again, then a third time, watching the sharp red stripes line themselves across the pale skin. Eames is breathing more harshly with each blow, but it's not until Arthur reaches the thirteenth that he catches a noise, half-sob, half-moan, slipping from Eames's lips.

           “What was that?” Arthur inquires.

           “Nothing, sir.” Eames's voice is very quiet.

           “Straighten up.” Arthur folds his belt in his hands, waiting.

           Eames obeys reluctantly. It's evident why when he's standing there before Arthur. His dick has gotten interested in spite of the pain, or maybe because of it. Arthur files that information away for later research.

           “On the desk.” Arthur says, threading his belt back through his trousers.

           “Sir?”

           “Sit on the front of the desk, legs spread.” Arthur shakes his head.

           Eames does as he's told, but he's blushing now, as his dick continues to advertise its interest in the entire situation. He hisses softly as he sits his sore ass down on the wooden desk, tears springing to his eyes. Arthur steps between his legs and lays a hand on Eames's belly. Pressing slowly, he makes the boy lower his back until he's laying flat on the desk with Arthur standing between his legs and his dick waving between them.

           Arthur examines the situation carefully. “I take it you still don't want me to speak to your father?”

           Eames presses his lips together and shakes his head. Arthur slides his hand down Eames's length, making the boy shiver. “Eames.”

           Eames looks up at him, and then he wraps his legs around Arthur's waist and pulls himself up.

           “How long before you kiss me?”

           His dick pushes itself eagerly between Arthur's fingers. He gives it a stroke and raises those same fingers to Eames's mouth. Eames takes them in his mouth without a word, his eyes on Arthur. Arthur tries not to groan as Eames's tongue wraps around his middle finger.

           “You little tease.”

           “You like it.” Eames lets the fingers slide over his lips. “I can tell.” He cups Arthur through his tailored linen trousers.

           Arthur acknowledges this by thrusting into Eames's hand. He has his spit-slicked fingers on Eames's dick now, stroking the younger version slowly. Eames's hands are already undoing Arthur's trousers and drawing him out. His hand wraps around Arthur eagerly, thumb sliding across the slit, rubbing him teasingly.

           “Kiss me.” He asks.

           “Your lips are so demanding.” Arthur murmurs, before giving in. He leans over their busy hands  and kisses Eames, hand grazing his hip, pressing him hard against the desk. Eames moans into his mouth, half in pleasure, half in pain.

           “You,” He gasps, his eyes dark with lust and pain, “I'm going to be sore tomorrow.”

            “You're lucky I'm not fucking you.” Arthur drags his nails over Eames's cock, making the man shudder.

           “We could.” Eames nips at Arthur's lower lip.

           “Not enough time.” Arthur strokes the vein trailing along the underside of Eames's shaft, before exploring further, till he's rubbing across Eames's hole. He slips just the tip of his finger in, teasingly.

           Eames whimpers, and comes with a surprisingly messy amount. It spatters across Arthur's trousers, shirt and tie. He's not amused. He is, however, impressed that Eames keeps working his cock even as he comes. His hands are capable and busy, dragging the pleasure out of Arthur until he gives a little gasp and shoots across Eames's belly, half in retaliation, half-accidentally. Eames's chest rises and falls as he simply holds Arthur's cock. Arthur leans in, his hand brushing over Eames's throat. Eames smiles up at him, and Arthur can't resist smiling back, even as he presses harder against the soft, vulnerable skin beneath his fingers.

           Eames's smile has faded by the time he dies. Arthur moves over to the desk, opening the right hand drawer. He takes out the gun and shoots himself quickly and cleanly.

 

~ * ~

 

           Eames blinks up at Arthur. “Are we even now then, Arthur?”

           Arthur removes the needle carefully, considering the question as he does. Even. What does that truly mean? He simply wanted Eames to know how it felt to have someone poking around in your head uninvited. (Arthur is well aware of the irony involving this desire, considering the sort of work they do, thank you very much.) But if Eames is disturbed or embarrassed over their actions, he's not showing it. He just lies there, handcuffed and looking up at Arthur.

           “Why didn't you want me to tell your father?”

           “Oh....you did tell him. Or rather, my real headmaster did. I was expelled for getting caught  with a fellow student in the boating house. My father was very displeased. He had me promptly shipped to the states where his brother was working for the military.” Eames grins. “In a way, that expulsion got me truly started in life.”

           “Then why did you want to change it?” Arthur's got the suitcase packed away. He could leave now. There's nothing keeping him. Nothing at all.

           “That was you.”

           “No, you were the one insinuating you'd do anything.” Arthur mimics Eames's words in the dream.

           “I still would.” Eames murmurs.

           Arthur eyes him carefully. “You...” He doesn't have time for this. He needs to leave the city. But Eames is handcuffed and willing, even fully dressed as Arthur intends to leave him. Knowing it'd be more torturous than if he had stripped him completely.

           Arthur climbs atop Eames, doing his best not to crease his trousers. “So you never let your headmaster almost finger you?”

           “He wasn't as cute as you.” Eames tells him.

           Arthur leans down to kiss Eames. Eames meets his lips willingly, doesn't turn away. He arches up to meet Arthur, his groin rubbing against Arthur's invitingly.

           It's the work of a moment to crawl down Eames and undo his fly. Arthur has his cock out in a moment, not looking at Eames as he takes him in his mouth.

           “ _Arthur_.” Eames purrs.

           Arthur ignores him as he wraps his tongue around Eames's shaft. Eames arches further into his mouth as Arthur hums around his cock. He sucks it teasingly, making Eames pant for his pleasure. It's surprisingly enjoyable to take Eames apart like this.

           Arthur pulls off until only the head is in between his lips. He continues to tease Eames with his tongue until the man is writhing beneath him. Eames lets out a breathy whisper, nothing coherent, as he comes down Arthur's throat, coating his tongue with his come.

           Arthur swallows silently, holding Eames's hips down. When he's finished he sits back, studying Eames. Then he tucks Eames away and refastens his trousers. Arthur climbs off Eames at last.

           “Arthur.”

           “The key is in the drawer.” Arthur nods. “I'm sure you're inventive enough to get out of this, Mr. Eames in one piece.”

           “Thanks to you, it'll be pure luck if I do.” Eames half-snarls.

           Arthur pauses at the door. “I thought you liked a challenge.”

           As he leaves he hears Eames's soft rasp of breath as he strains to reach the key. Arthur doesn't look back.

           He wonders if Eames will come after him. If they will play this game forever, back and forth. Aspects of this appear to Arthur, but for the most part he simply feels tired down to his bones.

 

~ * ~

 

           Time passes, as it usually does. They finally work together on the Holben-Stern job in France. They're both professional while they work side by side. Eames doesn't retaliate. Arthur's almost disappointed.

           They're both getting better known in the field. Arthur works mostly with Cobb these days. He should have known what was coming. It was inevitable really that Cobb would want both them on the same job.

           Still, the moment Cobb lets the name pass his lips, Arthur can't explain the thrill of anticipation that passes through him.

 

 ~ * ~

 

           Eames is the same. A little older, a little subdued....no that's not the right word, Eames is never entirely subdued, but something is different. Arthur finds himself trying to make an effort with the man, something he wouldn't have necessarily tried before.

 

~ * ~

 

_'Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you.'_

           “I wasn't being condescending.” Arthur corners Eames after the workshop, while the others are looking at the layouts Ariadne has ready. It's important that Eames knows this.

           “Weren't you?” Eames looks at him quizzically. There are lines around his eyes, and mouth. Arthur wants to kiss them until his skin is smooth again.

           “No, that was me being honest.”

           Eames chuckles at that, but it's sad. “You see, Arthur, maybe I don't know you well enough to tell when you're being honest.”

           “Whose fault is that?” Athur snaps back. He's not wasting his time on this bullshit. He's not the one...

           “I believe it's both of ours.” Eames says quietly. “And if I could do it again differently, I would.” He doesn't give Arthur time to respond to that; he simply walks away.

 

~ * ~

 

           It doesn't stop there.

           Arthur bridles at Eames's mocking his request for specificity. Then there's the whole business with the kick. The look Eames gives him there is beyond infuriating. Arthur wants to drag him off to a corner of the warehouse and fuck him till Eames is raw and sore and begging.

           Instead Arthur calmly tidies his desk and makes sure everything is in order before he goes over to where Eames is standing beside the window.

           “Are you going to behave?”

           “What? Don't you like me like this?” Eames grins crookedly. “Admit it, Arthur. I'm driving you mad. You can't decide to kiss me or kill me.”

           All of which is perfectly true, but to have it laid out so bluntly steals Arthur's breath. He exhales softly, then, simply steps into Eames's kiss, cups his face and kisses him until Eames is back up against the wall, holding Arthur, kissing him back. It's not fast, not desperate. No, it's more the slow burning desire that's been simmering within Arthur for almost two years now. He loves to touch Eames, loves his mouth as they kiss. The way their tongues meet, the give and pull of the slick subtle motion. The soft inarticulate little moans Eames makes as his tongue slides over Arthur's

           Eames has one hand on his hair, but the other is on Arthur's ass, cupping him through his trousers.

           “Arthur.” Eames sounds broken with lust.

           Arthur pulls back from Eames almost regretfully. “Later.”

           It's all he says, and Eames opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Was that a promise, Arthur?”

           “Yes,” Arthur straightens his tie and tries to assess whether his trousers look as though he's been just been groped. He expects Eames to make a fuss, but Eames simply nods and goes. There's a smile on his lips. 

 

~ * ~

  
           

_'           'Well, work faster.'_

           Arthur's sharp, sharper than he intends to be. He knows Eames is doing the best he can with the fucking situation Cobb has dropped them in. And if anyone can do it, it's Eames.

           It comes with a curious sort of surprise that Arthur has faith in Eames here at this point. He's not sure he trusts him, fairly sure he wouldn't tell Eames where he keeps his rarities. But he knows Eames will do this and that it's not going to be Eames's fault if the job gets completely fucked. That responsibility is his and Cobb's. The anger at Cobb is surprising, like everything, but Eames knows it's there.

           “Hey...” Eames draws him aside. “It wasn't your fault.”

           “It should have shown in the research,” Arthur mutters again. He's not used to making mistakes like this, but he's also not used to Cobb pulling shit like this. It's shaken him, and somehow Eames has noticed. For some reason this doesn't bother Arthur as much as it usually does. Eames is upset over Cobb's actions too; they're united in a reasonable cause for once. Arthur almost enjoys the idea, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

           “Arthur.” Eames's hands are on Arthur's shoulder, urging him to look up. “It wasn't your fault.”

           “I should have known.”

           “Snap out of it.” Eames says brusquely. “It's going to be fine.”

           Arthur nods and gets back to the van.

 

~ * ~

 

           Arthur kisses Ariadne for two reasons. One, because Eames is watching. He can tell from the way his neck prickles. Eames is standing somewhere close by, simply watching him. Probably still as the blonde.

           Two, because it was worth a shot.

 

~ * ~

 

           In the hotel room as he crouches beside Eames helping him with his cord, Arthur wants to kiss him. Wants to know whether Eames's younger self is a projection somewhere down in his dream or whether Eames was only that version of himself with Arthur.

           Eames smiles at him like he knows precisely what Arthur is thinking.

           “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

 

~ * ~

 

           When they wake on the plane, it's like a new dawn.

 

~ * ~

 

           Eames doesn't stay in LA long enough for Arthur to do anything about that promise. He's booked a seat on the next flight straight back to London. Arthur knows this because he watches Eames book it and go back through security, not twenty minutes after Cobb's departed.

           How is it you can know precisely what you want, and not have the slightest idea of how to go about getting it? There's no sure method with Eames. And yet somehow, Arthur thought it would be easier than this.

 

~ * ~

 

           He remembers how Eames knew it all along.  _The relationship with the father._ Arthur recalls how Eames had suggested the negative emotion first.  _A screw you to the old man._

           It doesn't take long to get the rest of the details. Or it wouldn't if anyone had known Eames's real name.

           “I thought you did.” Ariadne looks at him.

           “Why would you use something like _Eames_  if you didn't have to?”Arthur retorts.

           He gets it eventually. The mother's maiden name, of course. And when he sees the name of the father, well, Arthur doesn't blame Eames as at all.

 

 ~ * ~

 

           He wonders if he should wait and let Eames come to him. But Arthur had promised him and Arthur keeps his promises. So he buys a ticket, packs a small case, and flies to England.

           ...where it's raining and gray and November again– reminding Arthur all too clearly of that freezing night that changed everything despite how long he's denied it.

 

~ * ~

 

           Fortunately Eames's family is staying at their house in the city. It's easy to find and pace in front of until Arthur finally gives in and goes to the front door.

           A butler answers. “Yes?” He looks at Arthur dubiously.

           “Could you tell,” He pauses. The name is ridiculous and doesn't fit Eames at all. Eames is  _Eames_. Arthur's wondering if he can get away with the phrase 'the son of the house' when Eames himself comes out of the room opposite. He stops, staring at Arthur. For once his face is completely easy to read. Utter and complete shock.

           “ _That_  is the gentleman I came to see.” Arthur says.

           “I see, sir. May I take your coat then, sir?”

           “No.” Eames says just as Arthur says, “Yes.”

           “The gentleman,” Eames looks at Arthur very hard. “Is not staying. You can go.” He dismisses the butler, before turning to Arthur. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

           “Oh, don't give me that. You would have done the same thing.”

           Eames's shoulders are still drawn with tension, but the small chuckle escapes all the same. “Yes, I would have.” There's hungry tenderness in his eyes as he looks at Arthur. It makes Arthur feel naked and alive. He wonders if the butler would protest if he made Eames fuck him on the entryway carpet.

           “You have to go.”

           “Eames.”

           “My father is dying.” Eames states.

           “I know.” Arthur says. “I'm sorry.” He is sorry, but he also wants this to be over so Eames can be himself again, not this son of a lord, destined for great things in a mediocre age. Eames already does great things. Great, beautiful, illegal things.

           “You see...this isn't the most opportune time.”

           “I can see that...but I promised.”

           “You promised,” Eames echoes. “So you did, Arthur.”

           There's a polite cough from the other room, a reminder that they're not alone, and then silence.

           “Just go.” Eames murmurs. “Please.”

           “All right. I'll go.” Arthur says ungraciously. He doesn't want to leave Eames to this silent house. “I'll go sit in the subway, it'll be like old times.” He's not sure why he says this. It's certainly not to bring the curious pained look to Eames's eyes.

 

~ * ~

 

           Arthur leaves, hurrying through the chill November air to the nearest tube station. It's out of the wind at least. He buys a ticket and goes down to the platform, where it's suddenly too warm and noisy as the tube rushes by. The next one stops, people pile out of it, as the next crowd pushes through its doors. Arthur slumps against the wall between a poster for a musical he's fairly certain hasn't been running in at least ten years, and an advertisement for a trip to Hawaii. He wonders what he's supposed to do now. Should he have offered to be there for Eames? No, that's not them. Eames doesn't want him hovering over his father's deathbed.

           He wishes he had a coffee or something. Closing his eyes, Arthur lets the warm air wash over him.

           “Don't sleep in the subway, darling.” Eames says close to his ear. “You never know who's watching.”

            Arthur opens one eye. “What are you doing here?”

           “Isn't that obvious?” Eames grins. “Come home with me, Arthur.”

           “What about your father?”

           “Come _home_ with me.” Eames repeats.

           Arthur doesn't have to hear it a third time. He goes with Eames.

 

 ~ * ~

 

           Home isn't the city house. Home is a flat in Kensington. Eames unlocks the door and leads Arthur in. It's roomy and untidy with large drapes shielding the rooms from the sun, if it were sunny, and comfortable furniture scattered about. Arthur predicts the bed upstairs in Eames's room will be wide and unmade, warm and comfortable.

           The flowers on the kitchen table are wilted, but there's fresh milk in the fridge. Eames makes them both mugs of hot, milky tea. Arthur doesn't usually drink tea, but finds himself drinking and liking it.

           Eames settles onto the sofa in the sitting room, toeing off his shoes. “My father wants me to take over the family estate.”

           Arthur takes a sip of tea. “That reminds me of a job we just did.”

           “Uncanny.” Eames murmurs.  

           “What do you want, Eames?”

           “What do you think I want, Arthur?”

           “I think you want to work in dreams.” Arthur says steadily. “I think you want to work with me.”

           “Sure of that are you?”

           “Yes.” Of this, Arthur is sure.

           Eames leans back, half reclining. “And what if I want to stay?”

           “I'd estimate a few months before you came back.”

           Eames laughs and stretches out lengthwise. He gives Arthur a look. Arthur sets his mug aside and goes to him, laying beside Eames, their bodies pressed together.

           “You're right.” Eames murmurs, kissing Arthur's temple softly as he closes his eyes.

           “I usually am.” Arthur tells him, comfortable in the warmth of Eames's arms, listening to the sounds of the London traffic, in the gray November night.

 


End file.
